


Animal Instincts

by Meatball42



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Asthma, Central Park, Dogs, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 23:35:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/pseuds/Meatball42
Summary: When Steve's dog may be set upon by a dog-napper, Steve rushes to the rescue... only to find that he is the one in need of a little bit of assistance.





	Animal Instincts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cachette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cachette/gifts).



> Much well-deserved gratitude to lovepeaceohana, whose dedicated beta job made this fic significantly nicer to read.

Steve’s Fitbit vibrates on his wrist and he slows his jog to a fast walk, sneakers crunching through the fresh layer of frost. Martin continues sprinting ahead down the forest path, but Steve doesn’t worry; the Retriever-Great Dane mix is probably safer in Central Park than Steve is himself.

Steve tucks his scarf over his face in a vain attempt to keep the cold air from irritating his throat. He’s on a new round of steroids and it’s been working pretty well to keep his asthma to a minimum, but the cold air always irritates it. At least he _can_ jog now. Steve always felt like a jerk, playing endless games of fetch with Martin and letting the dog run himself out in the fenced-in dog parks, when his breed really wants to run free.

Martin comes racing back toward Steve, somebody’s discarded (and now torn and drooly) glove in his hand. He bounces around Steve, tail wagging like a blunt weapon, offering the glove for inspection.

“That’s great, boy,” Steve laughs, taking the gooey fabric from Martin’s mouth. Martin yips happily and prances around, like he’s expecting Steve to throw the glove for him to fetch. Rolling his eyes, Steve rears back and pretends to throw it.

Martin goes tearing off, following the path around a bend, further than the glove could have possibly gone. Steve laughs until he has to stop and focus on his breathing.

A minute later, he’s passed a trash can and thrown away the glove, but Martin hasn’t come back. Steve picks up into a jog again, starting to worry. They’re pretty near the west boundary of the park, and dognapping isn’t unheard of. His heart climbs into his throat when he hears Martin yipping, and he breaks into a sprint.

Cresting a hill, he sees a guy dressed in black on his knees in front of Martin, holding onto his collar. They’re only a few dozen steps from one of the gates to the park. Steve tears down the slope, shouting through his closed-up throat. “Get- away- from my- dog!”

The guy looks up in surprise as Steve approaches. He’s white and around Steve's age, with messy hair and a patchy growth that wants to call itself a beard. His black outfit is an expensive-looking coat and slacks: not exactly dognapping gear. He holds his hands up in the air, and Martin leaps forward to lick his face.

Steve claps his hands and Martin trots over to him, snuffling while Steve bends over and rests his hands on his knees. He tries to keep his head up enough to watch the potential dognapper, but the whistling constriction in his airway is making it hard.

“Hey buddy, I was just checking for tags. Are you alright?”

Steve jerks upright as the guy steps closer, and Martin whines in confusion, circling around Steve. He’s not technically trained to deal with Steve’s various health issues, but he’s a real smart dog, and he shoves his weight into Steve’s legs to comfort him.

Steve stumbles and the guy flinches forward, hands out like he’s going to try to catch Steve. “Seriously, my driver’s on the way, we can take you to the nearest hospital if you need.”

Martin yips. Steve buries a hand in his thick winter fur, finally getting his breathing a little under control.

“I’m fine,” he wheezes. “I’m- sorry.”

Steve may be stubborn, but the guy is being pretty nice, for a stranger in New York. He’s probably not trying to steal Steve’s dog.

“No problem, I get shouted at all the time,” the guy says, obviously joking, but now Steve feels bad. He tries to straighten up, offer his hand to shake, but his head goes fuzzy for a second. When his vision stabilizes, he’s on his ass in the snow with Martin whining and shoving at his shoulder.

“Happy, run some red lights, this might be a medical emergency.”

“Fine,” Steve repeats, weakly. “I’m fine.” The good news is, the adrenaline rush has kicked in enough to clear his airway. The bad news is, he’s now weak as a newborn kitten.

The stranger ignores him and keeps talking at a remarkably fast clip, presumably to his driver.

Steve waits until he can see straight and forces himself to his feet, leaning on Martin for assistance. Luckily, the dog’s head comes up to Steve’s ribs, and at about half Steve’s weight, Martin barely notices the extra pressure.

“Hey, what are you doing?” The stranger comes back over from where he’d been pacing in a wide circle.

“I’m leaving,” Steve says tersely. His cheeks are hot with embarrassment, and he doesn’t want the spectacle of the guy trying to pity-drive him to the hospital. “I’ve got meds at home.”

“At least let me drive you. Please?”

At the plaintive tone, Steve looks up at the guy’s face, which is a key mistake. He hadn’t noticed before, but now he sees that the stranger is actually very nice-looking. He’s got Italian looks: warm brown eyes and full dark brows, giving him a look not unlike Martin when he begs Steve to stay. He bites a full lower lip, those big round eyes all concerned, and Steve’s gaze is held against his will.

“I don’t-”

“Look, there’s Happy now!” The stranger walks toward the gate, gesturing for Steve to come with him.

Steve does follow, but only because that’s the way to the subway, too. He has no intention of driving off with a stranger, no matter how cute. Martin pads along at his heel; he always stays close after one of Steve’s attacks.

The cute guy opens the back door of a sleek and shiny red sports car and waves Steve over. “Come on, wouldn’t you rather drive than walk?” he begs. He has a salesman’s wide, persuasive smile, but the hope in his eyes nearly cancels out the obvious manipulation.

“I’m taking the A,” Steve tells him, amused despite himself.

“Driving is faster and warmer,” Cute Guy counters earnestly. He waves to the car again.

Martin pads up to him and Cute Guy scratches his head. “Your puppy here knows how he wants to travel, don’t you boy?” He slips into talking-to-a-dog voice and Steve has to smile.

“Thanks, but I’m alright now. Come on, Martin.” He claps his hands again.

Martin looks over his shoulder, then pointedly wags his tail and climbs into the car.

Steve’s jaw drops. _“Martin!"_

Cute Guy crows in victory. “They say animals are smarter than humans,” he taunts. 

“Martin, here!” Steve claps again.

Martin only woofs.

“What kind of name for a dog is Martin?” Cute Guy asks, tilting his head.

Steve squares his chest. “He’s named after Martin Luther King, Jr.,” he says firmly.

Sam had laughed out loud at him when Steve introduced him to Martin, years ago, and Natasha had rolled her eyes. Cute Guy melts.

“That’s adorable. And it means he’s definitely smarter than you. In you go!”

Martin barks a few times. It sounds like agreement.

Steve narrows his eyes at Cute Guy’s teasing grin, and gives up. Who is he to argue against animal instinct?

“You win,” he grumbles.

Cute Guy punches the air and squeezes into the car. Martin steps on his lap as they arrange themselves. Steve slides into the cramped remaining space and closes the door behind him. His small stature comes in handy for once, so there’s room even with another adult and a humongous pile of fur.

Once he gets Martin’s tail fur out of his face, he offers Cute Guy his hand. “I’m Steve.”

Cute Guy squeezes Steve’s hand warmly.  “Tony,” he replies. “I’m glad your dog was smart enough to bring us together.”

Steve’s cheeks heat up with a blush as he admits, “Me too.”


End file.
